I didn’t cry.
That was what they wanted. They wanted me to run out, to make a scene, to confirm in front of everyone that I was the sensitive, weak, uncomfortable daughter, the one who never fit into the Santillán family.
Instead, I stood up, walked over to my father, and placed a white envelope on his plate.
“For you, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.”
He looked at me mockingly.
“Another sentimental letter?”
“Open it when you have the courage.”
Then I left the house.
When my father opened that envelope, his scream could be heard all the way to the garden.
But to understand why that envelope could destroy him, I have to tell you what happened 2 months earlier.
I grew up in a mansion where everything shone except affection. My father’s house had Italian marble, huge windows, fountains, very expensive paintings, and a circular driveway where my used Honda always looked like an insult. My brother Iván, 35, was the perfect heir: tailored suit, luxury SUV, financial director of Grupo Santillán. Renata, 27, Graciela’s daughter, was image director, even though she couldn’t make a presentation without someone correcting it for her.
